From Aix to Ramilly and Geneva was all safe enough. From Geneva through Franche-ComtÉ, as I have before explained, had no perils; but a small piece of country in Lorraine and Bar, where the road ran along the frontier of France, and, as some statesmen and geographers asserted, actually crossed it and passed through French territory for at least three miles, was in reality the perilous part of Lord Montagu's journey.

That nobleman, however, seemed to consider himself very secure. He had so recently almost bearded the lion in his den with impunity, he had with such reckless freedom gone from one part of France itself to another without being stopped, that he thought there would be little risk in approaching a remote and somewhat poorly-peopled frontier or passing over a small space of debatable ground. He did not know, or he forgot, that the keen eyes of the fearless and unscrupulous French minister had been opened to his proceedings; that Richelieu had assumed a more bold and stern course of policy than ever; that personal hatred—perhaps, as some assert, personal rivalry—rendered it necessary for the cardinal to know in order to frustrate the efforts of his magnificent though very inferior adversary on the British side of the channel; and that no price, no labor, no violence even, would be considered too much which would place the designs and operations of Buckingham before the cabinet of France. He rode gayly, therefore, on his way,—though, in order not to attract too much attention, he sent forward several of his English attendants by a different road to meet him at Metz, and kept with him only Mr. Oakingham, Edward Langdale, a valet, and the two blacksmiths, with an ordinary groom.

This little party, on the evening of a beautiful autumnal day, rode along with tired horses through the little wood of Mirecourt, issued forth upon the side of the dry calcareous hill to the west, and looked anxiously for some place of rest. No one was well acquainted with the road; the horses were heavy-laden, for each besides his rider carried a heavy valise and two bags in front; and the whole morning had been passed in going up and down hill through an arid and almost deserted country. Some scattered houses, and then a nice clean village and a small but neat country inn, all gathered together in a little dell shaded with trees, at length gladdened the eyes of the weary travellers; and Lord Montagu, as was his custom, applied himself to make his sojourn comfortable for the hour, leaving his followers to enjoy themselves as best they could. He laughed and joked with the pretty Lorrainese landlady as with her own hands she laid the table for his dinner; he took out a book from his valise, and, with his feet upon one chair and his body on another, rejoiced in the ease of a new position, and, when his dinner at last came, ate with moderation but good appetite, and called a glow of satisfaction into the cheek of his hostess by pronouncing it the best meal he had ever tasted.

In the mean time, Mr. Oakingham had taken some refreshments and gone to bed; the valet had remained in the room with his lord, to serve him at table; the blacksmiths and the groom had gone to the stable; and Edward Langdale seemed the only unquiet spirit of the party. He ate but little; he drank less; he sat down; he rose up; he went out several times, either to the front of the house or the back; he visited the stable three times; he made many inquiries of the people of the house regarding the neighborhood and its inhabitants; and at length, instead of retiring to bed, he leaned his arms upon a table and his head upon his arms, and apparently went to sleep. People came and went, but he did not move; one of the girls of the inn spoke to him, but he did not answer; and it was near eleven o'clock before he changed his position. At that hour he rose and walked quietly to the back door of the inn, which looked into the stable-yard. The moon was shining near the full, and two men were standing near the stables talking together earnestly. As soon as he appeared at the door, they went round to the back of the low wooden building; but Edward had caught sight of them, and he walked straight to the stable and looked in. Most of the tired horses were resting quietly in the stables; but one, though disencumbered of packs and burdens, was saddled and bridled and tied up to a pillar.

Edward examined the animal well, to make sure of whom it belonged to, then quietly re-entered the inn and went straight to the room of Lord Montagu. He knocked at the door, and Montagu's voice told him to come in.

"Ah, Ned!" said his lord, "I have not seen you to-night."

"No, my lord," replied the youth: "I have been watching some things which I dislike."

"A very unsatisfactory employment," said Lord Montagu. "But what is it, good youth? You look gloomy, and your face is full of meaning. Are the Philistines upon us?"

"I do not know, my lord," replied Edward; "but I fear they soon will be. I do not like those two blacksmiths, my lord. They are bent upon some mischief, depend upon it."

"Oh, the old story!" said Montagu. "What is it now, Ned? Do they squint the other way, perchance?"

Edward was mortified; but he answered, respectfully, "No, my noble lord, but the same way as ever. I feel sure they are spies upon you and intend to betray you the very first opportunity."

"Indeed!" said Montagu, now somewhat roused. "But the proofs, Master Ned,—the proofs."

"Absolute proofs I cannot give," said Edward; "but their conduct is so suspicious that I cannot believe them honest. I beg your lordship's excuse while I detail what I have observed during the last ten days. You can then judge for yourself. These men affect to speak a patois almost incomprehensible; but I have detected them speaking as good French as you or I more than once. Together they talk a language I do not at all understand; but good Jacques BeauprÉ says it is Basque. I am certain it is not Savoyard. At Geneva, one of them wrote a letter and sent it off by a courier who was going to France. During the last two days' journey they have been making as diligent inquiries at every inn, as to the neighborhood, as if they had to direct the march."

"Pooh! that is all nothing," answered Montagu: "don't you think a blacksmith may have a sweetheart to write to, as well as yourself, Ned? And the poor devils, who have to find their way back, may well inquire about the roads."

"Well, my lord, I have but little more to say," replied Edward. "All day they have been looking curiously at every chateau we passed, even at five miles' distance; they have lagged behind all along the road, and stopped more than once to talk with the peasantry they met; and two hours before we arrived here I saw one of them give a piece of money to a lad, who set out incontinently over the fields."

"Ha! that was strange," said Montagu, thoughtfully. "What more?"

"Some three or four hours ago," continued the young man, "the taller of the two despatched the hostler somewhere. I could not learn where; but I heard him say, distinctly, 'Remember, tell him at eleven o'clock; not before eleven!' I have waited and watched ever since, and the scoundrel is now in close conference with a man who has come to see him, while his horse is standing saddled in the stable."

"This looks serious," said Montagu, rising. "Have you remarked any thing further?"

"Yes," answered Edward: "I have remarked that, though they pretend never to have been in this part of the country before, they know every inch of the road and have some acquaintance in every town."

"Let us go to the stable," said Lord Montagu: "I will know more of this before I sleep."

Quietly opening the door, he passed through a sort of dining-room and the kitchen into the court-yard; but at the moment he opened the outer door the sound of horses' feet was heard, and one of the stalls in the stable was found vacant. "Too late!" said Lord Montagu, calmly: "let us go back, Ned, and consult what is to be done."

Perhaps, where one person alone has power to decide, all consultation is useless,—more than useless,—only a waste of time. Who ever takes another man's advice unless he wishes to shuffle off a responsibility to which he feels himself unequal? Give me an obstinate general, if he have but a brain as big as a walnut. As far as success goes, it is better to be bravely wrong than timidly right.

Now, though Lord Montagu had a very great opinion of Edward Langdale's good sense, he had a much better opinion of his own; but councils of war had not then fallen into the state of disrepute to which they have sunk in our days; and therefore he returned to his room, and, having seen the door closely shut, asked, in a grave tone, "Now, Ned, what is to be done?"

"Why, my lord, you are the best judge; but if I were you I would go back to the road we left ten miles behind and go straight to Nancy. You are here on the very frontier of France, surrounded by French towns and castles: there are disputes about the exact bounds, and the cardinal, I should suppose, would not be very particular if he thought he could get possession of your lordship and your papers by a coup-de-main."

"You are a geographer, Ned," said Montagu. "Have you calculated how much time that detour would cost?"

"A day and a half," answered Edward, "if we ride hard."

"The roads are bad,—very hilly," said Montagu: "the beasts are tired now. It would cost two days and a half, at a moderate calculation; and I have not two days and a half to spare. I have promised to meet the Duke of Lorraine on Wednesday at Metz. We have ample time to do it if I ride straight on, but not more; and, if I do not come, he will not and cannot wait."

"Send him a messenger, my lord," said Edward: "I will undertake to carry him any message from your lordship before Tuesday night, to appoint a meeting at Pont À Mousson, or anywhere you like. Better kill a horse by hard riding than have you taken prisoner."

Montagu thought in silence for a few moments, and then said, in a meditative tone, "Do you know, Ned, I do not think there is so much danger as you imagine? The man's conduct is suspicious, I admit; but it is no more than suspicious. How do we know he has any thing to do with Richelieu? But even suppose he has: he can have no means of communicating with his sweet Eminence between this night and to-morrow morning. No governor of a castle or commander of troops would venture to violate a neutral territory without an express order; and it was impossible for the cardinal to know that I should pass by this road, so as to give his orders beforehand. I think we are quite safe, my good youth."

Montagu spoke in that cool sort of indifferent tone which almost implied—at least, so Edward construed it—that his page had been magnifying dangers. The young man bit his lip and for a moment remained silent; but then a sense of duty made him answer, "I cannot but think that by following the direct road your lordship will place yourself in extreme peril."

"Why, you are not afraid, Edward?" said Lord Montagu, laughing. "You little fire-devouring Turk, I never saw you afraid of any thing before."

The young man's cheek reddened. "I am not afraid of any thing, my lord," he answered, "but of seeing your lordship a prisoner in the hands of your enemies. If they once get you into the Bastille, what becomes of all the results of your lordship's negotiations?"

"True," answered Montagu, "the stakes we play for are great ones; but in playing for great stakes one must risk boldly wherever there is a chance of success. I think we can pass, Edward; and I will try it. But I will take precaution to make our passage sure. An hour and a half will carry us over all immediate danger; for the road, I find, bends back deeper into Bar, and it is only on the very frontier that there is any risk. No French force will venture more than a mile at the most into the Duke of Lorraine's territory."

"But what precaution can you take, my lord?" asked Edward, in some surprise. "Doubtless his Highness would grant you an escort; but he has no troops near. We are amidst peasants."

"No, no! I seek no escort," said Montagu: "we will pass alone if we pass at all. But you heard me on our arrival give the order to set out at seven. We will change the hour, Ned, and begin our march at five. Say not a word to any one to-night. I will trust only to you. At four let us all be called. Call Oakingham a quarter of an hour earlier, and Abbot too, for they are slow. Let the groom and the laquais get the horses ready by five; but, above all, say not a word to the Savoyard who is left, or his companion, if he returns, and keep a watch upon them."

"A sure watch," said Edward, with a grim smile. "All shall be ready, my lord; but yet——"

"Nay, nay," said Montagu, waving his hand; "no more objections, Ned. Now send the lackey to me: I will go to bed as if I had no alteration of last night's arrangements in my mind. You had better go to your room, too, and obtain a little sleep. I know you can wake when you like."

"I will go to my room," said Edward; "but I do not close my eyes to-night, my lord. I am not fond of leaving any thing to chance."

"You must have another word," said Montagu, laughing. "Pooh! pooh! We shall pass, my boy. Now, good-night."

Edward left him, sent the lackey to his room, went to the kitchen, where two of the stable-men were sleeping by the fire, roused one of them to give him a lamp, and retired to the chamber where young Abbot was snoring powerfully. But Edward was ill at ease. He thought that the precautions Lord Montagu had spoken of and ordered were not sufficient: he thought—as all men think, and young men especially—that his own plan was the best. However, he drew the charges of his pistols, loaded and primed them afresh; and then, sitting down at the window, where he had a view of the court-yard on one side and on the other a glance into the passage through the door which he left ajar, he waited, without moving a limb, for the coming of morning.